


O Holy Night

by aelora



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 20:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8071852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelora/pseuds/aelora
Summary: On the holiest of nights, the devil asks for forgiveness.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic written back in December 2007.

When Mohinder opens the door at the soft knock, he is expecting more carolers – the same annoying group of teenagers who couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket and have been harassing him all week. Instead, a heavy body falls against him, and he catches it for just a moment until he recognizes the scent of the man in his arms.  
  
Sylar.  
  
Instantly, he recoils back, stepping out of the way as Sylar falls to the ground with a loud thump, and Mohinder darts for the hall closet, scrambling for the top shelf and the gun hidden in the box tucked to the side. Hats and scarves and boxes drop around him as he pulls the weapon from its hiding place and whirls, pointing it at his visitor. For the moment, there’s only the sound of his breathing, the rapid beat of his heart in his chest, as he stares at the body before him. Slowly, Sylar raises up, pushing himself off the ground, but only barely, and he sees the gun and he laughs.  
  
“Really, doctor. I think that’s already been taken care of.”  
  
At first, Mohinder is confused, but then he sees it – blood pooling on the floor where Sylar had been laying, the front of his dark shirt wet and glistening. Lifting his eyes to meet Sylar’s gaze, Mohinder can see it there as well; the flush of his skin, sweat glistening on his forehead, a dull gleam of pain in his eyes. Slowly lowering his gun, he finds himself smiling.  
  
“Well, looks like it may turn out to be a Merry Christmas after all,” he remarks, pleased for the first time that day that Molly was spending her Christmas with Matt.  
  
Sylar flashes him a wry smile. “I thought you’d be pleased.”  
  
It’s been more than a year since Mohinder has seen him, a last big showdown that left both sides limping away to nurse their wounds. The only thing he’s heard from Sylar since has been the occasional headline in the news of yet another body found with the top of its head removed. Deep inside, he’s been curious as to the silence, but has never brought it up to those around him.  
  
“What are you doing here?” he asks, curious because so far Sylar has made no threatening moves. He’s just… lying there.  
  
Sylar smirks, appearing as if he’s about to say something sarcastic but then he closes his eyes for a moment, and gives a small shudder. “I… I have nowhere else to go.”  
  
Growing momentarily silent at the honest admission, Mohinder continues to stare down at Sylar as more blood slowly seeps onto the floor beneath him. The injury is obviously a bad one.  
  
Finally finding his voice, he says, “I’m not going to help you, so you might as well crawl back under whatever rock you came out from.”  
  
Another smile, followed by an uneven attempt at laughter. “I know that.”  
  
The words hang between them. Mohinder grips the gun in one hand, frowning as he considers the implications of what has just been said. He looks out the door, out into the night, hearing voices from somewhere down the street – singing. Shaking his head, he steps over Sylar’s body, pushing his legs out of the way with one foot as he closes the door. He tries not to think about what he’s doing as Sylar gingerly pulls himself out of the entry way, but he only makes it as far as the hall before he collapses against the wall, breathing hard.  
  
“Stay there,” Mohinder tells him, fully knowing that by the looks of it, he wouldn’t be able to get much further without help any way. And Mohinder wasn’t about to help him. “I don’t want you getting blood on the carpet.”  
  
He ignores Sylar’s raspy chuckle, followed by a painful cough as he steps into the family room to grab his phone. With it in one hand, and the gun in the other, he returns to the hall and watches Sylar as he attempts to get comfortable between the wall and the coat rack. The ever-present air of arrogance still surrounds him, and seems entirely implausible considering he appears as weak as a kitten. But Mohinder knows that where Sylar’s concerned, appearances are always deceiving. This entire situation could be an elaborate ruse to –  
  
Okay, so Mohinder has no idea why Sylar would want to trick him into thinking he was injured.  
  
“I could call an ambulance,” Mohinder muses aloud. “They’d patch you up, and then cart your ass to death row.”  
  
“No prison can hold me. You know that, doctor.”  
  
He does. And that’s partly why he doesn’t make the call. That and, “There’s a certain beauty to it. Getting to watch you die without having to commit murder. I don’t have to become you to get my revenge.”  
  
“Will telling yourself that help you sleep better at night?” Sylar shakes his head. “I think we both know better.”  
  
Mohinder clenches his jaw, glances down at the gun in his hand and thinks _It would be far easier on both of us to just pull the trigger_. Instead, he finds himself moving closer to Sylar, kneeling beside him as he sets the gun and phone on the floor next to him, and then reaches out to check Sylar’s wounds. It’s a mess; his stomach – Mohinder swallows back the bile that rises at the ripped flesh, the gaping wound that even if treated might not…  
  
“You’re dying.”  
  
It’s an odd thing to say, to realize that finally, _finally_ , Sylar will be gone from this life, his life. No more nightmares, no more worrying and wondering in the back of his mind when the murderer is going to appear again, when he’s finally going to succeed in killing Molly or Matt or Peter or so many others Mohinder has grown to care for. It’ll all be over… soon.  
  
“How did this happen?” He meets Sylar’s gaze, surprised to find that the man has been watching him, all curiosity and frankness that Mohinder has never seen in him before.  
  
He shrugs his shoulders, wincing a little at the movement. “Somebody decided they didn’t like the idea of having their head cut open. He was… like Peter. Or me. I don’t know, but he could do things I haven’t seen…” He smiles wistfully. “It was quite a fight.”  
  
“You seem pleased, considering you obviously lost.”  
  
“He was a worthy opponent,” comes the simple reply. “”I haven’t been challenged like that since… “ He trails off, staring up at Mohinder before looking away.  
  
Mohinder takes a breath, knowing what he was going to say. He picks up the gun, holding it out. “I’m not going to make this easy, but if you -- “  
  
“Suicide is a sin,” Sylar responds, and it’s so absurd that Mohinder doesn’t quite know what to say. He tucks the gun into his waistband, picks up the phone, stands as he considers calling the hospital once more.  
  
Sylar isn’t paying attention to him anymore. He’s staring into the family room, at the Christmas tree that Mohinder puts up every year for Molly because she insists on having decorations around her when she visits. It’s a small concession for the smile that lights up her face whenever she sees it. The way Sylar is staring at it now makes Mohinder uncomfortable. He wishes he would stop.  
  
“Why are you letting this happen?” he finally asks, because suddenly nothing is making sense. He points at the wound. “You could hold off the bleeding. I know you could. Your abilities – “  
  
“Did you know you’re the only friend I’ve ever had?”  
  
Mohinder blinks. “I’m not your friend.”  
  
Sylar nods. “I know.”  
  
Once again, more is said than Mohinder wants to hear, and he pushes away the creeping sensation of pity as he says, “Maybe if you weren’t running around cutting heads open, people would be a little friendlier.”  
  
“No. Even before… “ He shakes his head. “People were never interested in me. I wasn’t… very remarkable. Then Chandra showed up, and he listened to me, talked to me. Told me I was special.”  
  
“I don’t want to hear this,” Mohinder says angrily, turning away. “If you have a deathbed confession to make, crawl your pathetic ass to a church.”  
  
There’s silence behind him, and it only serves to make Mohinder’s anger grow. He whirls back around, drawing the gun, pointing it at Sylar’s head.  
  
“Why?” He demands. “Why did you have to come here? Is it some form of exquisite torture for me? For you? Haven’t you done enough? When does it end, dammit? When will you finally have your fill?”  
  
“Tonight,” he says softly, and Mohinder’s finger twitches against the trigger.  
  
“I hate you,” he grounds out. “And I’m not going to stand here and give you the satisfaction of forcing me to watch you die. You are going to die alone, in a pool of blood on a hard floor and maybe, _maybe_ if I feel up to it, I’ll come back in the morning and drag your cold, dead body out to the trash.”  
  
Turning, Mohinder makes his way into the family room, pulling closed the sliding doors behind him, hands and legs trembling as he leans his forehead against the wood paneling.  
  
That shouldn’t have been so hard. It shouldn’t have felt so wrong to say. Mohinder feels sick, his insides twisting into knots, and it isn’t as if Sylar doesn’t deserve this. It isn’t as if Mohinder shouldn’t be pulling out the New Year’s decorations and celebrating with noises makers and confetti – _Ding Dong_! _The witch is dead_!  
  
But his hands are cold, and his throat hurts, and his eyes sting, and he hates the man in the hallway more now than he ever has before. Mohinder thinks he should be used to death, but after Kirby Plaza, he has come to believe that there’s no such thing; that maybe some people are fated to live forever. Only the good die young, and evil continues, spreading its icy fingers over the hearts of those far more worthy of life.  
  
Letting out a ragged sob, Mohinder throws the phone across the room, feeling only minor satisfaction as it slams into the walls, pieces splintering to the floor. He could have used it, he could have tried, he could have saved himself from this awful feeling of misplaced guilt. Sylar didn’t deserve his pity or his sympathy or any form of compassion. Whatever horrors awaited him in the afterlife certainly wouldn’t be enough to make up for the pain he’s caused in this one.  
  
_Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned._  
  
The image of the scribbled words appear unbidden in Mohinder’s mind, and he grits his teeth, moving hastily across the room, as far away from the doors and the hallway as he can place himself. It doesn’t matter what momentary guilt Sylar suffered from years ago; it’s more than likely the man doesn’t even remember it. Surely, even if Sylar uttered those very words now, his Christian god wouldn’t be so foolish as to grant him any sort of forgiveness.  
  
And neither could Mohinder.  
  
So what was he doing here? Why had Sylar chosen to die on Mohinder’s doorstep? He didn’t for a moment believe that Sylar truly considered him a friend. There had been those brief days in Montana, when they’d shared a common bond, and Mohinder had felt (for maybe the only time ever, and he tries not to think about that) a true connection to someone. But that had been a lifetime of lies ago, and the truth had obliterated any shades of friendship that may have existed between them.  
  
Realizing he’ll probably never receive answers to his questions, Mohinder sits heavily onto the couch, staring down at the gun in his hand.  
  
Time slowly passes. From the other side of the doors he can hear occasional bouts of ragged coughing. He covers his ears. When it goes away, he relaxes, but the sound of caroling from the street outside makes him cover them again.  
  
“ _Fall on your knees_  
_Oh hear the angel voices_  
_Oh night divine”_  
  
“Dammit!” Mohinder punches his fist into the cushion beside him, dropping the gun as he gets up and stalks across the room, yanking the doors open.  
  
Sylar is slumped over, but he can see the uneven rise and fall of his chest. Not dead yet, and Mohinder ignores the warring feelings of relief and panic within him. He kneels beside the murderer, reaching a hand out to his shoulder. His head slowly lifts, his face a sickly palor, eyes unfocused.  
  
“Chandra?” he asks. “I thought you went away.”  
  
Mohinder opens his mouth, though uncertain of what to say.  
  
“I _am_ special, Chandra,” he says quietly, earnestly. “ _I am_.”  
  
Not thinking of anything else, Mohinder simply responds, “I know.”  
  
There’s a smile, and then suddenly the eyes grow alert once more, and the smile fades. “Doctor.” He looks around. “I take it this isn’t Hell.”  
  
“Not quite,” Mohinder admits.  
  
Sylar shakes his head, leaning it back against the wall and closing his eyes. The sound of the carolers draws closer. “This was my mother’s favorite carol.”  
  
“I don’t know it.”  
  
Eyes opening, he brings his gaze back to Mohinder. “Long lay the world in sin and error pining, till he appear'd and the soul felt its worth,” he speaks the words, tone carrying the slightest hint of reverence for their meaning. “A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn…”  
  
“It’s… beautiful.” Mohinder shifts uncomfortably, moving to sit beside him.  
  
He nods. “I killed her, you know.”  
  
Shocked, Mohinder says, “Sylar, I don’t want to hear – “  
  
“I showed her what I could do,” he continues, ignoring Mohinder’s protest. “I wanted to make her… proud. She wanted me to be something, to be more than she ever was. I tried – I _tried so hard_. But all I did was scare her. She pulled out scissors, tried to make me go away, and I didn’t understand. I didn’t get how she could deny me like that.”  
  
He looks at Mohinder, bewilderment in his gaze. “ _Her own son_. She couldn’t even see… We struggled and… “ He pauses, lifting one hand, staring down at it. “Her blood is mixed with all of the others.”  
  
Mohinder wants to go back into the family room and shut the doors again. It won't be long now. He could wait it out. Instead, he just sits there.  
  
“My name is Gabriel.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I thought Sylar sounded… cool.”  
  
“Actually, it sounds like a household appliance.”  
  
Sylar smiles, fingers moving idly through a puddle of blood beside his leg. “It was a watch. I lost it a while ago.”  
  
Mohinder shrugs, attempting a smile. “You probably have some kind of internal clock going by now, anyway.”  
  
Sylar’s gaze comes up, dark eyes staring through Mohinder’s for a long, silent moment. Then, “I’m afraid.”  
  
It’s on the tip of Mohinder’s tongue to point out the dozens and dozens of people who have been afraid over the years thanks to Sylar. But for some odd reason, he doesn’t. He just sits there, and listens.  
  
“My mother was very religious. I don’t think she had anything else. Every Sunday, I confessed my sins. Lying to my parents, staring down the choir teacher’s blouse, touching myself in the dark. It all seems so… paltry now. My mother taught me all about Hell, but she never knew. She never really knew what Hell was all about – ”  
  
He’s interrupted by another bout of coughing, a painful, jagged sound that leaves Mohinder cringing beside him as Sylar doubles over. When it finally ends, and he sits back up with a shudder, there is blood on his chin and lips. Mohinder doesn’t think; he reaches up and wipes it away. Thankfully, Sylar doesn’t comment on the action, and Mohinder relaxes, allowing himself to forget what he did.  
  
“You can use my brain for research.” Sylar is looking at him again. “Cut me open and see what’s inside. Kind of fitting, I think. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be known for being the key to curing cancer or something.”  
  
“You won’t be known for anything, Sylar,” Mohinder tells him honestly and softly. “When you die, you’re going to be forgotten.”  
  
A very real fear flashes in Sylar’s eyes, and Mohinder almost regrets his words. The murderer looks away and draws a ragged breath, saying nothing, body occasionally shaking with tremors. Mohinder glances down, watching as the fingers resting in the pool of blood slowly clench with pain over and over again.  
  
Minutes pass in silence before he hears Sylar whisper, “I’m cold.”  
  
_That’s because you’re dying_ , Mohinder thinks. He doesn’t say it. He looks around for a throw or something to put over him, but there’s nothing nearby. Molly probably has something in her room, but he’s not going to taint anything of hers. As Sylar shakes beside him, soft whimpers now issuing from his throat, Mohinder does the only thing he can do. He moves closer, sliding in behind him and the wall, and pulls him close against his chest. There was a time, so very long ago, that he had dreamed of holding Zane like this.  
  
“Is that better?”  
  
Sylar nods, shaking in his arms.  
  
“It’s almost over,” Mohinder says gently, laying his cheek against the surprisingly soft hair.  
  
“Don’t – “ He coughs again, and Mohinder holds him more tightly until it’s over. “Don’t tell them I died, Mohinder. Please? They’ll celebrate, they’ll… “  
  
Not long ago, Mohinder had considered celebrating as well. At that moment, the idea of celebrating someone’s death, even Sylar’s, is abhorrent to him.  
  
He brushes his fingers over Sylar’s cheek. “Shhhh. It’s going to be all right.”  
  
Fingers are clutching his shirt, the warmth of blood seeping through the material, and Mohinder fights the inexplicable tightness in his throat. When Sylar speaks again, his voice is hardly a whisper, the fear and pain now clearly evident.  
  
“I… I’m sorry, Mohinder. _I’m sorry_.”  
  
_It’s too late for that_ , he thinks.  
  
“Mohinder…”  
  
_Any moment now_ …  
  
“Close your eyes, Gabriel,” Mohinder says softly, pressing his lips to the dark hair. “You’re not alone...”

 

*****************************************************

 

“You died at twelve oh five in the morning on Christmas Day. I didn’t tell them… I didn’t tell anyone. They think you’ve gone underground; that maybe you’ve given up. They never really knew you anyway.  
  
“The man that killed you is Braden Masser. We don’t know much about him other than the fact that he likes to kill. I think you were his first, and ever since then, he receives some kind of sick pleasure at murdering others with special abilities for no reason that we’ve discovered other than to lay waste. We’ve lost Hiro, and Nathan, and Matt… It’s true what they say: cut off the head of one beast…  
  
“I have a confession of my own to make. I never told you, but those days we spent together, when you were pretending to be Zane Taylor? They were the happiest days I’ve had in… many years. I don’t know what that means. And now, I’ll never know what it means. I know I should have told you that night. It wouldn’t have made a difference but I think – I think you would have liked to have heard it. I’m sorry. I should have given you that much. It seems so insignificant now.  
  
“Anyway, I have to go. Bennet is planning something to take on Masser, and he wants us all there. Seeing as how I have no idea if this will be something all of us will walk away from, I thought I should stop by and tell you… Ironic that the only person I want to speak to right now is you.”  
  
Standing, Mohinder stares down at the grave for a long, silent moment, knowing it’s far too late for ‘what if’s’, before he turns and walks away from the lone headstone with the simple epitaph:

_Zane._


End file.
